


No Wilderness with You

by ariadnes_string



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Collection: Purimgifts Day 2, Gen, Grooming, Hair Brushing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 11:50:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1303840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes_string/pseuds/ariadnes_string
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ichabod gets ectoplasm in his hair.  Abbie helps him get it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Wilderness with You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LoveChilde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveChilde/gifts).



_Without friends, the world is but a wilderness_

“Lieutenant?” Ichadod called from the cabin’s bathroom. “I wonder if you might lend me some assistance?”

“What’s wrong?” Abbie called back, suddenly alarmed. He sounded—weird. They’d gotten rid of the ghost—revenant—creepy spirit of evil-whatever-it-was—just fine, but its farewell gesture had been to explode in a shower of what Ichabod said was ectoplasm and Abbie thought was more accurately classified as nasty black goo.

She supposed he had the right to name it, though, since he’d taken the brunt of the barrage. He’d been grossed out, she could tell—the stuff was stinky, on top of everything else—but he’d held it together fine, just ducking immediately into the bathroom as soon as they’d gotten back to the cabin.

The shower had been running for a while now. 

“Crane?” she prompted, worried. Maybe the stuff had been more toxic than they’d thought. “Are you okay? Do you want me to come in?” 

Her hand was already on the doorknob, but he opened it from inside. “I’m quite well, thank you.” He had one towel around his waist, another draped modestly over his shoulders. Incongruously, she noticed how pale the skin of his torso was, as if he’d never sunbathed a day in his life. “Only this—this substance—seems to have welded itself to—“ He made a small, defeated gesture towards his head. “I would suspect a spell, but perhaps—“

“Are you saying it’s stuck in your hair?”

Ichabod nodded miserably.

“And you want me to help you get it out?”

Another nod, this time with a wide-eyed look that made Abbie think of a wet puppy.

She raised her own cautious hand to his head. Sure enough, she could feel lumps of something thicker and more viscous between the damp strands of his hair. “Ugh.” She made an involuntary grimace. “Well, you’re right about the welding part. At least you didn't get much on your beard. Come on out here where I can see you, okay?”

He did, thankfully sparing her entering the bathroom herself; she could see was it splattered with goo and smelly besides. She didn’t want to think what the stuff had done to his clothes.

Once she’d gotten Crane into a chair by the window, Abbie was able to make a closer inspection. It didn’t look good. “I know you don’t want to hear this,” she said. “But it’s gonna be easier to cut this stuff out than to wash it or comb it. Want me to give it a shot? I can tidy it up as I go—get it out of your eyes.” She tried not to indulge in visions of Ichabod with short, modern cut, maybe a little longer on top than on the sides.

His shoulders stiffened under her hands. “No. I mean—if that’s the only alternative, of course. But couldn’t you try—?”

Huh. Maybe he felt the same way about his hair as he did about his clothes. His vulnerability softened her. The poor guy had just had a ghost explode on him, after all. “I’ll give it a try,” she told him, sighing. “But I’m just warning you, it's gonna take while.”

A nose-holding expedition to the bathroom yielded a fine-toothed comb. She wished it had yielded a pair of rubber gloves, too—she had no desire to make physical contact with the goo. But she steeled herself for the effort.

Crane was stoic about it, at least, bending his head and submitting passively to her attentions. She tried to be gentle, but it was no use. The goo was tacky and adhesive enough to have her worrying about supernatural qualities as well. “Sorry,” she said, as a particularly stubborn bit pulled a few of Ichabod’s hairs out with it.

But he just shook his head and gripped his towel-covered knees more tightly with his hands.

Only when she went after a glob of goo stuck in the tender area behind his ear did he hiss and mutter, “Do take care, Miss Mills—I would rather not be completely bald.”

Something in his tone, if not his accent, unexpectedly reminded Abbie of afternoons with Jenny when they were kids, fooling around with hairstyles, experimenting with braids and beads, and, on one disastrous occasion, blond extensions. Jenny was the only other person she knew who could summon that tone of pained majesty. The memory of her sister in what had turned out looking like a blond fright wig drew a laugh from Abbie; she hadn't thought of those days for a while.

“Oh, am I amusing to you now?” Ichabod interrupted her reverie, sounding even more aggrieved. 

“No, just thinking of something else,” Abbie told him, rubbing a soothing hand over his shoulder. “If I wanted something to laugh at, I would do you up in pigtails when I’m done.”

“Like a sailor?” He relaxed into his usual air of ironic interest, as if mollified by the idea. “A poor seaman I’d make. I understand one is accorded no respect unless one can sit on one’s queue.”

Abbie had no idea what he was talking about. “Well, more like Pippi Longstocking, really.” The rest of the glob surrendered to a firm yank. 

“Ow,” said Ichabod.

“Shush, you big baby." She cuffed him gently on the shoulder. "That does it, I think.” 

She ran the comb over his head to check, something satisfying about the tug and slip of his fine hair through its grooves. Ichabod seemed to find it comforting as well, leaning into the motion. She gave it a few more strokes than necessary, both of them lulled by the rhythm.

“You are my hero, Miss Mills,” Ichabod murmured. 

“Don't mention it, princess,” said Abbie, and couldn’t resist dropping a kiss on the crown of his head.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The epigraph is from Francis Bacon.


End file.
